


dorwinion wine

by themlittlesummerthings (ocaptainrogers)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Chinese Translation Available, Drinking, Flirting, Kissing, M/M, this is very very sappy, very very accidental 3am fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:22:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2793005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ocaptainrogers/pseuds/themlittlesummerthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dorwinion wine, Bard thinks, might be the worst thing he has ever put in his mouth and it should be promptly banned. If there’s one thing that could make a blush rise in an Elf’s cheeks, it’s Dorwinion wine, he thinks and chuckles to himself as he forces himself to take another sip. It’s as strong as moonshine and burns his throat on the way down. In retrospect, he should’ve declined the Elvenking’s offer and gone back to see his children to bed, because if three cups of this is enough to make Thranduil’s rigid person slightly looser, Bard doesn’t want to know what the same amount would do to him."</p>
<p>In which Bard shares more than a few glasses of wine with Thranduil over the course of a week; of what transpires within the confines of the tent walls, and what happens after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Translation into Chinese available: [Dorwinion Wine (Chinese Translation)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3285683) by [Hyperspace](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyperspace/pseuds/Hyperspace)

Dorwinion wine, Bard thinks, might be the worst thing he has ever put in his mouth and it should be promptly banned. _If there’s one thing that could make a blush rise in an Elf’s cheeks, it’s this,_ he thinks and chuckles to himself as he forces himself to take another sip. It’s as strong as moonshine and burns his throat on the way down. In retrospect, he should’ve declined the Elvenking’s offer and gone back to see his children to bed, because if three cups of this is enough to make Thranduil’s rigid person slightly looser, Bard doesn’t want to know what the same amount would do to _him_.

He hasn’t had a lot, barely enough to get him tipsy had it been any other sort of wine. But this is not another sort of wine, and half a glass has made his tongue numb and his vision slightly blurry. They’re on the brink of war, he cannot do something so unnecessarily reckless as getting arse over tit drunk when they don’t know what might happen tomorrow. Yet here he is. 

Bard takes another sip and tightens his jaw when he swallows in an effort not to pull a grimace.

Thranduil doesn’t appear to be stirred by the alcohol at all, but then again he’s an Elf, Bard reasons. He hasn't had nearly enough to drink to even get a little drunk.

That’s what Bard’s decided when the Elvenking suddenly speaks – they have barely said a word the whole time they’ve sat here; finding what little form of comfort they can in one another’s presence before all hell breaks loose.

“Do you have children, Master Bard?” the Elvenking asks, his dark, booming voice sounds darker than it did mere hours ago. He sounds disinterested but there’s a fascinated glint in his eyes that betrays him.

Bard blinks, having gotten pulled out of his distracting thoughts so brutally makes him reconsider just how drunk he might actually be. It takes him almost a full half-minute to answer the question, but Thranduil doesn’t appear anxious to hear it. He’s just staring at Bard with his eyes half closed and his fingers loosely entwined on the table top.

“A boy and two girls,” Bard says eventually and takes another sip of his drink to create a lull, hoping it will give him enough time to come up with a question of his own.

In the end what comes out of his mouth is the unsurprising, “You?”

Thranduil, who’ve been staring at him, expecting a reply, looks away. A lock of his long white-blond hair falls gracefully over his cheeks and Bard wants to reach out and tuck it back behind his ears. It looks so soft, like touching it would feel the same as dragging your fingertips through the fine short hairs on a baby rabbit’s back.

“I have a son. Legolas,” Thranduil says at last, fixing those bright blue eyes on Bard again, they’re half-lidded, his cheeks are starting to get rosy, and Bard feels like there’s a joke he’s not getting or a point to some story he can’t quite work out. It’s deeply unnerving, especially when you’re in the company of an Elf who only speaks when he feels like it. His face must show it because the corners of Thranduil’s lips are tugging slightly upward now.

“It’s, uh. Strong wine,” Bard says and he immediately wished he was back in his sleeping-quarters and not making a fool of himself in front of the king of the Woodland Realm.

Thranduil laughs and it’s the sound of a trickling stream in the middle of spring time. Bard has never heard an Elf laugh before and is immediately enamoured by it. _Is this really what they sound like?_

“Yes, my friend,” Thranduil says and his voice has still got that amused tint to it. He rises from his chair and walks over to where he keeps his bottles of wine and pours himself another glass. His long gold-laced-with-red cape pooling on the floor at his feet. “It has to be,” he adds before walking back, choosing to sit in the chair next to Bard instead of the one by the table he’d been sitting in till now. “If it's to have any affect on me.”

Bard’s fingers have started to tingle now and his head’s a little heavier, and he’s only had a single cup of the stuff. It must be very strong indeed, he thinks. “Aye, you Elves have a higher tolerance for this sort of thing, I imagine.”

Thranduil only hums. Even his neck has turned pink now and his eyelids are heavy, his posture relaxed. Bard has never been this close to an Elf before, neither physically or in friendship. He’s at a bit of a loss of what to do with himself, especially now that the alcohol has thoroughly clouded his mind.

They’re close enough to touch now, if they wished. The Elvenking’s long, fair hair hanging loose and graceful over his shoulders and down his chest, and Bard’s fingers are itching to touch it, get those long locks back behind his ears so he can see his face properly.

If he’d eased up on the wine this wouldn’t be happening, Bard thinks disappointedly to himself, as he watches his tingling treacherous fingers reach over until they’re at the Elvenking’s shoulder. At this point though, he decides, he couldn’t’ve stopped even if he wanted to. He watches with his breath caught in his throat as his rough and work-worn fingers gently smooth some of Thranduil’s almost white hair away from around his neck.

Thranduil’s reaction is not as immediate as Bard anticipates – it’s that damned wine, surely – but when he turns his head it’s with an amused tilt to his lips, a questioning arch in his brows.

“'t was in the way,” is all Bard has to say about that, apparently, but Thranduil looks as if he knows the answer to the question he was not-so-subtly asking. Why ask in the first place, Bard thinks. Smug bastard.

There’s that trilling sound again and it takes a few moments for Bard to realise that Thranduil is laughing. He feels himself frown and has to squint now to keep the Elf’s face in focus. One thing he knows for certain - even in this drowsy drunken state - is that he’s never going near Dorwinion wine again in his life.

“I have been called many things, Bard of Laketown, but never once has someone described me as a ‘smug bastard’.”

“I said that out loud?” Bard says and even his voice doesn’t sound quite like his own anymore. His hands feel clumsy and weird and he’s experiencing a strange inclination to laugh at everything. “Is there anything else embarrassing I've done that I need to know?” his voice sounds even, thank the Valar, but his head feels like a jumbled mess of ten thousand questions and at least as many strange-but-not-unwanted urges.

Thranduil considers him for a moment, his blue eyes shining in the candlelight, playful shadows dancing over his cheekbones. Bard is itching to lean a little closer and-

“Your hand is still in my hair. Would you count that as ‘embarrassing?’” Thranduil almost sings and chuckles when Bard’s immediate reaction is to stutter out a messy apology and gently remove his hand like he's afraid of pulling on Thranduil's hair.

“It’s quite alright.”

But it’s not alright is it, Bard mentally scolds himself. He has overstepped the boundaries so severely he’s surprised he’s still got hands at all.

“I am sorry, King Thranduil, I-,”

Then there’s a hand on his, a pale, long-fingered, slim hand; and it’s warm, not icy cold as he somehow always expected Elven skin to feel like. Even his fingernails are beautiful; they look like polished white oval rocks. It’s really not fair and not appropriate at all. Bard’s hands are suntanned and calloused from years of working. There’s still dirt and ash under his fingernails.

“It’s quite alright,” Thranduil says again and his eyes are somehow shining brighter and he’s a lot closer now than he was mere seconds ago. Bard’s slow-working mind is urging him to lean forward, just a little bit closer - just as one of the Elvenking’s guards on the outside asks permission to enter.

Bard bites out a curse and hears Thranduil chuckle again, albeit disappointedly and appears to share Bard's sentiment. “We’re not done here,” Bard says, perhaps a bit too aggressively, but he finds he doesn’t care.

“We will have words tomorrow, Master Bard,” is all Thranduil has to say about that and Bard nods and smiles as the king helps him out of the chair with a solid hand on his arm.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bard and thranduil share another /intimate/ moment in the tent, set in dale, about a week after bofa
> 
>  
> 
> if you spot any typos or mistakes let me know and i'll fix it as soon as i can, i stayed up till 7am writing/editing this so there might be quite a few in there :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did some research and calculations because i wanted Girion to be as closely related to Bard as possible, not just a distant relative, you know, so i made him his great-great-grandfather. i'm unsure whether or not this is canon, but for the sake of this fic, just roll with it
> 
> i also made some connections between Girion and Thranduil, i quite like the thought of them having known each other and being on friendly terms
> 
> i made bard's current age 36/37, and his father died when bard was 20-ish though this doesn't come up in the fic itself

It’s been a week since the Battle and there is still blood in the streets and on every tuft of weed and grass, in every single crack and crevice between the cobblestones in Dale. The blood seem to have no end, it just keeps flowing, keeps _being_ there.

There are no bodies left, though, only ash and freshly overturned earth. Flowers on every makeshift gravestone, carefully picked and weaved into delicate chains by frail and shaking hands.

Bard is patrolling the streets still. Every single night. He cannot let himself go to sleep unless he’s checked everywhere he can think of for lingering orcs and goblins still thirsty for more red. He needs to keep his children safe, that’s all he’s been thinking of since it all started.

He’s rounding the corner into the courtyard, on his way to one of the outer walls, when he walks straight into one of Thranduil’s guards. _They’re still here?_ There is nothing for them here now, Bard knows this. They’ve buried their dead, Lord Thranduil’s business here is done – isn’t it?

Bard apologises to the Elf - who seems to understand the hurry Bard was in, thankfully - and strides over to the King’s tent. He doesn’t bother knocking, or the equivalent thereof – there is no use in rapping his knuckles on doors made of fabric. The Elvenking has most likely heard him coming, anyway.

“My Lord Thranduil,” he says from the doorway, nodding to the king. “I thought you and your army would have gone this afternoon. I am surprised to find you here.”

Thranduil makes a noncommittal sound from between his many cushions and blankets on the floor in the furthest corner of the tent. He hasn’t gone to bed yet, Bard hopes; he rather wished to have one more conversation with his … friend? before he left.

“Please, do not misunderstand, I am pleased to see you have not left,” Bard adds, feeling the need to explain himself although it’s going very poorly if he must say so himself. The Elvenking’s silence is unsettling as well and the urge to fill it with talk feels like a burden he’s afraid he’s not fit to carry.

Thranduil sits up and crosses his legs at the ankles, and Bard notices immediately that this is the first time he has seen the elf with no boots on. His feet are long and slender and as pale as the rest of him, and Bard wants to reach out and touch as much skin as his dirty, calloused hands can. He can’t help but imagine the contrast - the strange picture they’d paint; the unmarred, perfect and pearly-white skin of Thranduil caressed and touched by wide hands tanned and toughened and bearing many scars.

Bard doesn’t stop himself from thinking about it this time. If the King had read his mind the last time they were alone together he would find nothing new in it now. The thought is oddly satisfying, and not as scary as it perhaps should’ve been.

There is no silver crown upon the King’s brow this time either, only long white-golden hair hanging loose over his shoulders and a simple night shirt and breeches. Even when he’s getting ready for bed he’s still wearing those gold-embroidered gowns of his, Bard notices, and he has to bite his own tongue to keep from cackling.

“We will linger here for yet a while, my friend. Come, sit,” Thranduil finally answers the question, though he could’ve just as simply not said anything at all. His answers are hardly ever answers.

Bard hesitates for a moment before stepping fully inside the King’s abode. He removes his own shoes and his outer coat but nothing else; the weather has only gotten colder, even in here, and he doesn’t wish to catch a cold.

“And how long is a while, Thranduil?” Bard asks and smiles when the Elf huffs at him. He knows which buttons to push now, and what sort of reaction he might get when he does. If he’d known when this majestic creature rode into Dale on his antlered beast that there would one day be close friendship between them … well, he _wouldn’t’ve_ … He couldn’t possibly have foreseen this; the Elvenking is elusive and untrusting and – some might even say _cold_ , but only they who don’t know him.

In the time between the burning of Esgaroth and this very moment Bard has learned quite a few things, and one of them is that Lord Thranduil of Mirkwood is as far from cold as you could possibly get.

Thranduil smiles at him and says nothing until he’s done pouring glasses of wine for them both and Bard feels more than inclined to deny the offer, especially thinking of what happened – or rather, _almost_ , happened – last time. But Thranduil wants nothing of it and Bard takes the glass begrudgingly, answering Thranduil’s smirk with only a frown and set lips.

“We will stay until I am content and ready to leave,” Thranduil elaborates, in that unelaborate way of his, and takes a sip of the wine. “And until I am sure all threats are gone, and no harm will come to Dale. You needn’t have worried about orcs coming back during the nights, and the safety of your children. I have scouts positioned at every outpost and guards patrolling all hours of both day and night. You are all quite safe.”

Bard doesn’t know how to even begin to say something in order to convey his gratitude, so he drinks the wine instead, hoping the liquid will give him the answers and aid he’s looking for. “I do not know how to thank you, or repay you, my Lo-,”

“Hush,” Thranduil interrupts rather rudely and sends Bard one of his small, almost undetectable smiles. “There is no need to thank me. I am doing it out of my own good will, believe it or not, but it is the truth. As for repayment,” he says and takes another sip, “for that there is also no need. Your friendship and company, Master Bard, is quite enough. For the moment.”

The sentiment and truthfulness behind the Elvenking’s words are surprising and Bard has no clue what to do with the sudden fluttering sensation in his stomach, but he smiles, raises his glass in a toast to Thranduil, who almost laughs, and takes a much larger sip than he probably should’ve.

Thranduil smiles approvingly and starts nursing his own wine again, settling more comfortably into his many cushions as he drinks. Bard finds himself more relaxed than he believes he’s ever been, not since before the dwarves came to Lake-Town, at the very least, when the life on the lake was still slow-going and routine-filled and _calm_.

There’s one thing he’s glad is not the same as before, though, and that’s the friendship that has formed and grown between the Elvenking and himself.

“Now tell me, Bard,” Thranduil says after a while, when their glasses have been emptied and refilled, and there are no sounds outside save for the wind dancing gently against the delicate and light walls of Thranduil’s tent.

Now, Bard is starting to regret accepting the offer of wine, or he _was_ regretting it. His thoughts have already started to get jumbled, and his mind is like the heavily shrouded peaks of the Misty Mountains. He’s also starting to get very warm and is silently contemplating removing his shirt, though there’s still some quickly dwindling lucid part of him that thinks that that might not be the best idea.

“I have been meaning to ask, though our last meeting did not seem like the best time to do so, but now we are alone and outside the moon is bright in the sky and we have no longer the threat of war weighing heavy upon our shoulders,” Thranduil adds, after quite a long while. Bard has almost forgotten what they were talking about.

Bard just nods and he might come to hate himself for it in the morning, but he downs the last of his wine and bites the inside of his cheek in effort not to pull a grimace as the liquid burns his throat on the way down.

“How _did_ you slay the dragon? How did a simple bargeman kill Smaug the Terrible,” Thranduil asks and his voice as he said the dragons name sounded like what Bard reckons only true hatred and fear of a thing would.

“Ah,” Bard says and laughs despite the sudden heaviness of his too tired heart and mind, “a simple bargeman, hmm?”

Thranduil looks down and frowns, and for a moment he appears to wish he’d used some other word. Bard knows he won’t get an apology for it, not that he needs one in the first place; he was a simple bargeman and he still is.

“I was … my father taught me how to use the bow. He was rather good at it, I remember, one of the best in all of Lake-Town. He used to take me to the woods, you know.” At this Thranduil finally looks up and locks his eyes with Bard’s. They look both happy and sad, and Bard wants to reach into his soul and rip all the sorrows out with his bare hands, even if that means he’d get both cut and stung for it. He would still do it, and it frightens him.

“We never went more than a hundred yards in at most, though. My father had a great fear of Elves. He always told me not to sway too far from his side, said if I got lost the Woodland Elves would kidnap me and lock me away in their cells and I would never see sun or moon or even my own family again.”

Thranduil hums to himself, but he doesn’t look displeased by the story. “And did you believe him?”

“Did I believe his silly nonsense about your kind being malevolent child stealers? No. No, I did not.” His glass is refilled by Thranduil as soon as the last of it is swallowed. “If I did I wouldn’t voluntarily sail to the border of your kingdom and collect your empty barrels every week with naught but my longbow at hand.”

“Why the longbow in the first place if you did not fear us?”

“In case there were wolves,” Bard says like it’s obvious and to him it is. “Or in case those wretched spiders came at me, no longer fearing the sting of sunshine in their eyes, or my arrows in their backs and many legs.”

This time Thranduil does laugh and his pale slender hand comes to rest on top of Bard’s. It’s always surprising how warm Thranduil’s skin really is. He must have Healer’s Hands, Bard thinks and makes a mental note to ask him about it one day.

“You truly are something special,” Thranduil says and his laugh is the wind rattling the leaves on a warm spring day, when there is still dew in the grass, and the world seems younger than it is.

“And here I thought I was just a simple bargeman,” Bard teases and in a haze of … _something_ … he turns his hand around and closes his scarred and dirty fingers around the Elf’s clean and beautiful ones. He realises almost immediately that this is crossing a line not meant to be crossed, but the braver, stupider, drunker part of him doesn’t care.

“Who says you can’t be both,” Thranduil says and keeps his hand in Bard’s. “Now do answer my question, if you wouldn’t mind. How did the dragon die? Was it by the last of Lord Girion’s blackarrows?”

Bard looks up sharply and too fast, his head feels like it weighs a ton and his mind is getting increasingly foggier, and frowns at the Elf, “How did you know about the blackarrows?” he asks, although he cannot say he’s that surprised, when he really thinks about it.

“I knew Lord Girion, and I knew of his skill with both bow and wind lance. I am glad I managed to convince him to have them made; he never thought a dragon would come to conquer Erebor and hoard its gold, not in his time, and he never feared it as he should’ve either.”

“You knew him?” Bard says and this time he is taken aback, though he should’ve known. Thranduil nods, and Bard adds, “He was my ancestor. My great-great-grandfather in fact.”

“I know,” is all he gets. That, and an amused glint in the Elvenking’s eyes.

“Now do go on with your story ere we both fall asleep with our glasses yet full and our wits still about us,” Thranduil urges and juts his elbow against Bard’s ribs before settling in closer. Bard almost stops breathing as Thranduil produces another thick woollen blanket from somewhere to his left and spreads it over both their laps and naked feet.

Bard forces a laugh and nods, and drinks more wine, not bothering to hide his grimace when it stings his throat. His eyes wander down to their clasped hands again and he’s suddenly aware of how quiet the world is, how lucky they both are to still be alive, and how much heartbreak they’ve both had to face in too short a while.

“I was imprisoned when I first heard it-,”

“ _Imprisoned?_ ” Thranduil close to shouts and Bard flinches away, but Thranduil wants none of it and takes his hand again when it slips from Bard’s.

“Aye, the Master had me arrested and put behind bars, for what I do not quite know, probably nothing, as usual. Though, I suppose, it may have something do to with me hiding the dwarves in my house, and speaking against Thorin when he came before the people and the Master speaking of gold and rewards and glory.”

“The Master had a habit of arresting you? Why?” the Elf asks and there’s an emotion in his voice and in his eyes directed at him that Bard finds both surprising and comforting, and in an instant Bard realises he has fallen for Thranduil, and it might be the wine and it might not, but Bard is … not upset at all about it.

“I’m not sure. My guess is as good as yours, but he was never quite taken with me. He was always accusing me of plotting against him. He was under the impression that the people of Lake-Town favoured me over him, and he seemed to translate that into me trying to overthrow him and take on the seat as Master myself.”

“Hmmm. I knew there was a reason I never liked that man,” Thranduil muses and when Bard turns to look at him their faces are so close he can feel the puffs of air when Thranduil breathes. It wouldn’t take much to just lean over and press their lips together. It wouldn’t take much at all, but it would change everything, and he doesn’t know if he’s quite ready for that yet, or just scared of what would happen thereafter.

From the heady look in Thranduil’s eyes he’s thinking the same thing.

“Aye, he was quite a dreadful person, I must admit.” Bard swallows another mouthful of wine before going on. “Anyway, I was rather trapped and the guards had all run away and I was alone behind iron bars and with no key. I did not know if my-my children were safe, all I knew was that I left them with some of the dwarves from Thorin’s company, and I hoped that they would protect them. I was trying to get out and I – I had to think fast, I had to break out of there because the dragon was coming and my _children_ and-,” Thranduil’s hand tightens around Bard’s and the warmth of his fingers is oddly calming; it gives him something else to focus on as he relives the horrible memories of his home burning, and his son and daughters being _out there_ somewhere, and he himself being utterly without hope and afraid that he would never see his family alive again.

“I managed to get myself out and went to the armoury. There were swords and spears and war hammers there, but my skill with weapons has always been that of archery. I took a longbow, one of yew, and a quiver full of arrows, and I made my way to the roof.”

The room seems both colder and warmer now that he takes a pause from his story and takes in his surroundings again. Thranduil is a warm weight at his left, his skin shining like pure gold in the low-burning light of the candles. They must’ve been here for quite a long while; there are pools of melted candle-wax on the table top.

“I heard the roar long before I saw it. And then the beating of his wings. I was on a rooftop with naught but a longbow and a handful or arrows, and it didn’t occur to me for a second that they would not be enough to kill the dragon.”

“How did the blackarrow come to you, if you did not have it in your hands by then?” Thranduil asks and it’s a fair question. If Bain hadn’t come when he had they would all be dead, nothing but ash upon the wind and the water, and Mirkwood would probably be on fire and the desolation of the dragon would’ve expanded tenfold, if not more.

“My son, Bain, he – he had not left with the others. He had gone back and picked up the arrow from wherever he hid it. I-,” he stops; his lungs feel full of air yet empty of it at the same time. He brings his free hand up to wipe at his suddenly wet eyes and doesn’t notice the pity and sorrow in Thranduil’s eyes.

“Smaug attempted to bring down the tower my son and I were in by smashing it with his tail, and he almost succeeded. My bow snapped in half and I was out of arrows. I stared the Desolation right in the eyes as he spoke to me and I was afraid. But I had a blackarrow, and my broken bow I jammed into two pieces of timber, and the arrow I perched on the shoulder of my son. I saw then immediately the only spot that I could hit, the mark of the missing scale Girion had knocked off with one of his own blackarrows. As Smaug came towards us with fire in his lungs and hate in his heart I released the arrow and it went right through his flesh like it was nothing.”

Thranduil’s other hand has come up to rest on top of Bard’s now, too, and Bard wants to thank him, wants to speak every word of gratitude he knows and show it with every gesture, but he feels rooted to the spot and is only able to wipe the tears with his sleeve once they fall from his eyes. Thranduil says nothing.

“And then the dragon was dead,” he says and his throat feels like it’s full of stones, and his voice sounds thick and weak and weary.

Then there’s a sudden lightness in his heart and Bard is glad. He’s sure part of that is Thranduil’s doing, either by some form of Elven magic, or him just being there and listening.

But there is also much wine in him, and that’s probably why he does what he does next.

He takes the leap, the crosses another line that’s not meant to be crossed, and he does so gladly, for his hand is still in the Elf’s and there is candlelight and enticing smells about them, and his heart has, yet in the middle of a great disaster that has taken many lives, found another to beat for.

Thranduil’s lips are as warm as his hands, but impossibly softer, and they taste of wine and the sunshine glittering upon the lake in the middle of summer, and the wild honey he used to find in the woods outside Esgaroth when he was a young boy.

He presses kiss after kiss against the Elvenking’s lips, brings his hands up to frame his face and tangle in his long hair, as Thranduil’s hands find Bard’s shoulder and the soft tender skin of Bard’s hip under his shirt.

“I understand if you must cut my hands off and hang me for doing this, but please let me spend the night here with you first; I fear I won’t be truly happy again until I know what it’s like to wake up with your arms around me.”

Thranduil laughs against Bard’s lips and brings one hand up to push stray locks of hair back behind Bard’s ear. “I knew you were both a great and a quite grim man, Bard, but never one for jests and untruths.”

Bard smiles and presses his lips to Thranduil’s cheekbone. “Who says I’m making jests? I am speaking the truth.” He kisses the tip of Thranduil’s nose and laughs when it scrunches up. “Sort of. Maybe half.”

“Only half? How so?”

“I know you won’t cut off my hands and hang me.”

“Mmm. You’re quite right.”

“And I know you won’t kick me out of your bed until morning.”

“Then why ask in the first place?”

Bard shrugs. “I suppose I just wanted to be sure,” he says and smiles. He kisses Thranduil a few times more before laying down and turning till his back is pressed against Thranduil’s chest, and he doesn’t fall asleep till there are arms about his waist and soft puffing breath against the back of his neck.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the morning after

Warmth. That is the first thing Bard notices when he wakes up and it leaves him momentarily confused. A soothing warmth not only at his back, but it all but feels like it’s surrounding his entire person. A bemused frown shapes his brows. Isn’t it Winter? Shouldn't his hands be freezing and his belly and legs feel almost numb with cold?

It takes him a long minute, before he has even opened his eyes, to remember just _where_ he is, and to whom the body next to him belongs. His back is still plastered to Thranduil’s front, it feels, and the Elvenking’s arm lies snugly against Bard’s stomach; slim, pale fingers absent-mindedly caressing the soft fabric of Bard's shirt.

“Are you awake?” comes a soft voice at his ear, it makes him shiver despite the unnaturally high temperature in the tent, and the arm around him tightens slightly. Otherwise neither of them move. The whole ordeal should feel unusual and odd, but for whatever reason it’s got a touch of something almost familiar, instead.

Bard releases a small sigh despite himself, too content and relaxed to want to move and speak, and he decides that rather than answering he should just turn around in Thranduil’s arms and kiss him. He doesn’t have the wine to blame for being so forward and insolent this time, but he decides privately and smugly for himself that they’re well past that point now. Thranduil doesn’t seem opposed to have him still in his bed so Bard takes that as a sign that this might be okay. So without thinking and deciding any further, that’s what he does. Gingerly heaving himself up on his elbows, making sure to keep the blanket in place over them both, he twists around, changing his position till he’s lying half on top of Thranduil.

A rather brave statement, if he must say so himself. The passive, almost adherent look in the Elvenking’s eyes helps calm his nerves, and Bard can’t help but call himself lucky, for not only having his children safe and sound, but also for the rather sudden coming of this … _unexpected_ friendship.

“Mornin’,” Bard murmurs and grins, placing one of his hands on Thranduil’s cheek, no longer afraid or hesitating over _when_ and _how_ and _where_ to touch him. If the Elf doesn’t like it, he’ll let him know – though gently, Bard hopes; he wouldn’t much fancy getting thrown off. So, Bard leans in slowly, giving Thranduil plenty of time to object and move away if he so wishes. He moves his hand from pale cheek to white-blond hair before gently dragging his fingertips over Thranduil’s pointy ears till they finally reach his hair, tangling almost cautiously in the long silvery locks.

When their lips meet it’s soft and measured and, oddly, if feels like they’ve been doing this for weeks and months and not the mere hours spread over seven days, as it has. Bard brushes his lips against the corners of Thranduil’s before attempting to tentatively lick against the Elf’s plump bottom lip. The reaction he gets is instantaneous; both surprising and expected at the same time.

Thranduil hums eagerly and presses back with more insistence, his hands settling at Bard’s hips with the sort of readiness and ease that only comes after having done this sort of thing at least a dozen times already. Soft thumbs are stroking tenderly against Bard's hipbones before travelling down further to draw delicate lines against the sensitive skin around his groin, where goosebumps appear at once, and Thranduil seem almost set on hauling every shiver and moan he can out of him until there's nothing left but a trembling leaf, pale brown and thin and ready for the cold winter wind to take it at last.

Bard starts squirming despite trying to ignore the slightly uncomfortable sensation of the warm seeking fingers against his slightly warmer lower abdomen and it doesn't take long until Thranduil notices; he gasps, or is he panting? and removes his hands faster than Bard gets a chance to fully understand what’s happening.

“I apologize, I wasn’t – I didn’t-,” Thranduil stutters and it’s the first time Bard has ever heard an Elf not knowing what to say but attempting to do so anyway. It’s sort of thrilling, in a way, getting to see the flustered side of the otherwise regal and unamused Elvenking. Thranduil, still not sure of what to do with himself, hawks and his hands eventually fall back to rest against Bard’s hips, albeit softer this time, more hesitant.

“Hey, hey, no,” Bard says and places both hands on the cushions at either of Thranduil’s sides, effectively prisoning him. Thranduil looks unamused, but that might be more in regards of Bard’s unfortunate reaction than being kept at bay by his arms. Bard leans back in and kisses him again, if only because of the somewhat downcast look in Thranduil’s eyes. It’s never been easy to read the emotions behind the Elvenking’s eyes, but he’s getting better at it now, or so he hopes.

“It’s alright, it wasn’t like that - it’s not what you think. I’m, well I’m not sure you Elves know about this sort of thing. Maybe you do, I have no idea.” He’s well aware of his stuttering and flailing hands, so he sits himself down next to the Elf instead, finding it a bit too tiring and not very advantageous position to hold for as long as he reckons this conversation will last. Being at eye-level with Thranduil will either way be more helpful, he figures.

Thranduil manages to look both bored and hopeful at the same time and Bard would very much like to kiss him again, and weave his fingers through his soft as pussy willow hair, but finds that the need to explain himself trumps all those things. “I’m just ticklish, love.” It occurs to him a moment too late the word that just slipped past his lips, and he wants to reel it back in and trap it somewhere in his belly, but it's much too late for it now. Damn his mouth, and damn the frisky sparkle in the Elf's light-blue eyes. He can’t imagine anyone having ever been this insolent towards the Woodland King, and still being _alive,_ no less _touching_ him so intimately as they’ve done since they woke up this morning.

“Ticklish?” Thranduil replies sweetly, and Bard is about to ask him if he really does not know what that means when the kind and innocent smile on Thranduil’s lips turns into a devious smirk, and his hands attack Bard’s sides and pelvic with thrilling and _much too playful_ fingers.

“No! Stop!” Bard tries futilely to grab on to Thranduil’s hands and wiggling fingers and almost buckles over laughing before the Elf finally stops, though not completely, his fingers are still searing fire-hot circles into the soft expanse of skin between his belly and loins. “You utter bastard!” He laughs and scratches aimlessly at the parts that tickled the most.

Thranduil’s only reply is a soft laugh and it's the sounds of the fond puffs of breath of a mirthful spring wind over newly blossomed wild-flowers. Bard stops wriggling the second he hears the chuckle, doesn’t stop himself from tracing his thumb over Thranduil’s lower lip and gingerly pressing down on that almost undetectable cleft in the middle of it.

He feels rather than hears Thranduil’s soft intake of breath and leans in to taste the air on his tongue, palming his face, letting his wide hands cover most of the Elf’s beautiful, almost too pale face.

“Bastard?” Thranduil asks teasingly when they part again, and his own hands travel slowly up from hips to partly naked shoulders before finally settling in Bard’s hair. “Is that what you call your visitors where you are from? I must say, your manners leave something to be desired, my friend.”

“That wasn’t-,” Bard starts but cuts himself off when he leans back on his haunches to take a proper look at Thranduil’s face. He appears to be grinning, or, well, Bard still hasn’t quite figured out which ones of Thranduil’s smiles to trust more and which are more honest; the ones that tug on his lips, or the ones that brightens his eyes. He decides it doesn’t really matter; they’re both smiles in the end, and that’s all the chooses to bother with for now. “I’ve welcomed my fair share of guests since the dragon burned Esgaroth, my good friend, but bastards or no, they’ve never gotten the same one I granted you.”

Thranduil huffs; a crispy breath of chill Western air against greening birch-tops in late April. “I feel rather special. And quite spoiled,” Thranduil replies, voice monotonous and dark, but not unhappy.

“Aye, that’s because you _are_ spoiled,” Bard agrees and tries his best to keep his features schooled, but it proves to be a hard task when he sees the scandalous look Thranduil sends him. “Spoiled as a rich man’s only son, and yet as generous and forgiving as the first rays of sunlight after a long cold night.”

“You get bolder and more impudent every second I spend with you, Bard of the Lake. May your future guests not suffer the same fate, lest I find you one day, wandering in your tower on your lonesome with black eyes and a bloody nose.”

“You think me easily bruised and easier still to hit?”

Thranduil smiles and it’s full of mirth and oozing with confidence. “I think you are an easy man to catch unawares,” he says, and when Bard is confusedly about to ask why, two strong arms envelop him and toss him sideways and back into the pile of cushions he spent the night sleeping on, and more surprising still is the image of the Elvenking straddling his hips with laughter in his eyes, and his otherwise pristine and well-kept hair in wavy tangles.


End file.
